“… I
shall despair.
There is
no creature loves me
And when
I die no soul will pity me.
And
wherefore should they, for I myself
Find in
myself no pity to myself.”
(Richard
III, Act V, 3)
One of
my most special “natural high” moments of reading Shakespeare – and one I
certainly cannot claim any personal acquaintance with. Not yet anyway, as this
kind of total “despair” should occur only once in people’s lives – if at all! –
usually when they are close to death or on the brink of topping themselves.
Nonetheless it generated one of my most beautiful reading experiences, of the
kind that made me feel a hundred and fifty percent ALIVE.
The
obvious explanation for this puzzling experience is that this moment has
triggered some of the most beautiful poetry ever written. It basically is pure
music without a tune. Like “Life is a walking shadow …” and other moments of
this kind it is usually the worst bit for the protagonists, the moment they
encounter their all-time low, AND the climax of any play, respectively tragedy.
And I find that the difficulty for actors is mostly rather to penetrate the
beauty towards the ugly and distressing TRUTH at the bottom of it. But without
the distressing content the poetic intensity couldn’t be created. It is, in
turn, what makes the truth bearable, even attractive, makes us willing to deal
with it, maybe even too much …
So,
beauty is only part of the explanation why “we” enjoy these moments so much,
just one side of the coin. Of course I cannot know what other people enjoy
about “Shakespeare”, but great actors are always a good indication as they are
the ones to know what “we” want to see. And they certainly strife never to miss
out one of these moments.
(I
think, though, that one of the greatest attractions for me about Simon Russell
Beale is that he ISN’T going for these tragic “ranting moments” but tries to
find INDIVIDUAL moments of this kind - like “Not mad!” - which might be more
relevant for a 21st century audience. Even on the level of
character: He made me finally see the bottomless pit of Nothing beneath the
entertaining surface of Falstaff, made me SEE Falstaff in the first place. What
he does is more genuinely contemporary, and therefore great even though it tends
to “defeat” beauty. His Lear wasn’t beautiful, as Ian McKellen’s was, though
both were “great Shakespeare” in their own way. Maybe I ENJOY more what Ian
McKellen does and still VALUE what Simon Russell Beale does infinitely.)
I don’t
really think, though, that I have the explanation yet. And I didn’t get
anywhere near it analyzing THIS moment. As often, I got closer to it about
something that DIDN’T work when I was reading. It was when I noticed my
dissatisfaction with the ending of “Othello”, wondering why Othello ANNOYED me
so much. I love the play, mainly because of Iago for whom, in my opinion, Shakespeare
has written some of his most beautiful text. And it is a great story. But
Othello always put me off – even, I think, before I saw Anthony Hopkins playing
him in the old BBC cycle of plays, at a time when there wasn’t such a thing as
coloured contact lenses. (Othello with a painted face and huge blue eyes: urghhh!!!
There are some things that just don’t work, never did! And the acting wasn’t
good, by the way. He was great as Hannibal Lecter – amazing really! - but I
never liked him as an actor apart from that.) Spotting Othello’s great hidden
Nothing moment at the end by remembering this parallel moment from “The Spooks”
I mentioned in my last post made me find out why.
(As I just
realized that this will be a key issue of my theory of reading, here is the
opportunity for this lengthy footnote: “Listening” to what I FEEL – especially
when there are specific moments that make me distinctly uncomfortable, or feel
great et cetera - is the most important method for me to find out WHAT THE TEXT
IS ABOUT. This might not be so for most people, by the way, and the reason is
not exactly that I believe “gut” to be more important than brain. It rather is
a practical reason because, to find out what the text is about, I have to reproduce
it in some way. Kind of like when I am waking, remembering a dream. I even am
able to tell, sometimes, that the dream as such was just a bunch of rubbish. It
is the ACT of reproducing it that gives it meaning. Nonetheless, the whole
point of this activity is to make the reproduction as true to the original
“event” as possible, and I find my memory about what I FELT at a specific
moment more reliable and accurate than anything I think I THOUGHT at that
moment. (There might actually not be that much CONSCIOUS thought involved in
aesthetic activities, nothing at least which I could REPRODUCE. Though, as I
wrote, this might just be so for me, not something that applies to reading in
general. But it doesn’t matter as I must rely on myself to produce this text I
am working with. Nonetheless, being able to find out what other people do when
they are reading certainly is top of my list of wishes that will never be granted!)
I remember DISTINCTLY what I felt when I consciously considered “There is no
creature loves me …” for the first time – how it changed “the way I was wired”
(“Doctor Who”, season 9). And I remember how the ending of Othello put me off
when I “really read” the play for the first time, seeing the recent production
by the RSC. Giving thought to my negative feelings about “Hamlet” in my recent
post was equally important for finding out what the play might be about for me.
I suppose it has something to do with the experience that every kind of fiction
– when it is not just boring – contains this act of “poetic persuasion” which
consists basically in “acting up” before myself. Kind of like I did as a child,
just “silently”, PRETENDING to be this other person in a different reality. And
this persuasion can only be successful when there is some kind of strong
feeling involved. I remember that, when I was at uni, participating in a
lecture about Musil, I became obsessed with the issue of WHERE exactly I - as
the reader - AM in that text. Looking into it, I realized that critics didn’t
really seem to care about this question. That there were only old-fashioned, rather
inflexible, attempts available on a theory about perspective, narrator, reader
et cetera that somehow didn’t fit what I wanted to describe. I was surprised,
but now I am not anymore. The question where, and how, I find myself in the
text seems totally irrelevant from a theoretical point of view, but it was also
totally how these texts – in this case three novellas by Musil – came together
and BECAME so beautiful. And I still think it is where Musil was going with
these texts. To prove how completely the individual consciousness may change
our perception of reality. And he NEEDS me as a reader for this. Of course I am
fascinated by extreme expressions of this act of self-persuasion – like,
actually, dreaming another person’s dreams (!?), or being crushed in the wake
of seeing a play. There are various degrees of usefulness, as they can be
totally specific (as dreaming another person’s dreams), or just kind of like a
general aesthetic experience. Being crushed by the sheer impact of this beauty
- or probably rather the sudden contrast with the bleak everyday reality in the
aftermath. That there can suddenly be nothing where there was so much up to
this point unfelt emotional content. It is interesting that Richard Armitage –
playing John Proctor in “The Crucible” - described a similar experience. He
expected to feel great, having actually succeeded, and then felt like “curling
into a ball and cry” instead. It might have been the same kind of experience,
or something quite different – like all these feeling having to “go” somewhere
when the actual playing is over. Though probably not something very
“text-specific” either. Nonetheless, it certainly was a memorable experience,
saying a lot about the SIGNIFICANCE of the text we were dealing with.)
What is
so special about this moment from “Richard III” – and which made it useful for
understanding Othello’s “Nothing” – is this absolute rejection of SELF-PITY. It
certainly is what got me on my toes and made me LISTEN, apart from the great
poetry. And it is what I LIKED about it in the first place because, of course,
I despise self-pity, as “everybody” does … But liking something so much usually
makes me look closer. Though it is also an integral part of the tragic
sacrifice to get over self-pity, the significant thing about this quote is in fact
that it shows why there has to BE self-pity in the first place to get over it.
Richard III, when all is done, is NOT tragic. What he says is so remarkable
because it contains this unique ANALYSIS of self-pity, of what self-pity is
GOOD for. It is kind of this last link with ourselves, the most primitive part
of our humanity. The point about Richard III is in fact to show him as INHUMAN.
I think that the tragic sacrifice only works – in a fictional context on a
stage or in a film – when there is a visible effort of clinging to this basic humanity,
clinging to what there might be left when everything else is gone … There is an
act of stoicism in Richard’s “Nothing moment” which I cannot help finding
admirable, but it is just an acknowledgment of the fact that the unimaginable
has happened. That he has severed this tie with himself a long time ago. What
makes this moment so thrilling, I think, is to actually see it on a stage
played by a great actor like Ralph Fiennes: the scandal – and DISBELIEF, from the
audience’s point of view – that this total self-loss can actually happen though
the person in question appears to be very much alive and, somehow, still HUMAN.
(And I think this made Ralph Fiennes my “dream cast” for “Richard III” –
though, in this case, I didn’t know it before he actually played him. He always
makes me BELIEVE in these evil characters because he makes them so genuinely
human. And I think this is because he kind of translates “being human” by
acting into “being able to suffer”. (It is probably why I didn’t like him that
much for a long time, not yet being old enough for this kind of stark truth.) He
grants this humanity even to a character like Voldemort who, for me, only EXISTS
because Ralph Fiennes played him. Otherwise he would have remained a “paper
character” – like Grindelwald, whom I just saw Johnny Depp play appropriately
weird and nasty and impressive, but who will certainly never come to life in
the same way.)
Describing
in detail what happens to Richard III made me notice that my key moment from
the “Spooks” actually is closer to “There is no creature loves me …” than to “Othello”.
In fact, it is probably the most weird variation on the theme of losing oneself
I have encountered, but this is exclusively in the context. The sudden realization
of what has happened - and the disbelief that something like this actually
MIGHT happen. As in many series, even great ones, the bullshit tends to pile up
towards the end, probably finishing the series. When nobody is likely to believe
in these stories anymore. It definitely happened with “The Spooks”, so I might
have written this moment off as bullshit, but it probably had too much to do
with what I always loved about the series. Right now I am totally into “Doctor
Who” where the same thing happens, usually towards the end of each season: the
bullshit piling up. But I tolerate it and it keeps me entertained because of
its singular variety of versions on the humanity theme. It might be about a
whole lot of other things - like “The Spooks”, which are mainly about not very
life-like Spooks and a rather imaginary MI5. But the chief attraction for me - when
I am fed up with aliens or pompous bullshit - is this singular inventiveness in
presenting the question of what makes us human in a different light,
continuously pushing it to extremes. In this case the kind of lunatic story is
that what Lucas North says is LITERALLY true. He tried to “move out” of who he
had become in an attempt of going back to who he had been before what shouldn’t
have happened happened. Failing this, he literally got stranded with nothing.
Like “I myself find in myself no pity to myself” it is kind of trying out how
far you can go with this kind of thing – which is something that actually
occurs all the time in real life. This is the reason I was intrigued, I think, as
it usually passes inconspicuously – certainly without causing havoc, even
without being noticed. I usually notice years later that I have moved out of a
former self – again! - but I have a rather disruptive case of this right now in
my immediate social environment. We usually keep this ILLUSION OF OUR SELF, I
suppose, so we don’t notice. If we have to it might just be too horrible to
consider. It probably was, in this case, so the moment as such didn’t turn out
great. Maybe it was just an attempt to give Lucas North a decent “send-off”.
And this parallel I noticed about Othello when Hugh Quarshie played him. I
think he tried to preserve Othello’s dignity, which is understandable though
entirely the wrong thing to do in my opinion. I suppose for an actor to deal
with the ABSOLUTE NOTHING – the bottomless pit – is really quite difficult. Even
if you WANT to deal with it, there might just be NOTHING TO SHOW. What is
interesting is what I think Shakespeare did trying to solve this problem.
What links
Lucas North to Othello, not Richard III – who, though lying to everybody else,
constantly presents the audience with his true intentions and genuine insight –
is the LYING. In “The Spooks” it is just layers and layers of lies piling up
until you cannot see the “real” person anymore– which is probably an illusion
in the first place, but it is what “we” at least are TRYING to do, in real
life. What we go on trying when we are reading fiction until it doesn’t work
anymore. What put me off about Othello, I realized, is his attempt to preserve the
illusion that the person he has been is still there after what he has done. That
THIS appears to be the most important thing. Which is totally unfair because it
is perfectly natural. It IS the most important thing, in a tragic context, for
the protagonist to preserve his dignity. To somehow continue “in one piece”.
Nonetheless there is a reason for being so pitiless – why Othello doesn’t
DESERVE to be pitied. Probably just because it is the brutal core of the tragic
narrative that this is NOT true: “We” don’t continue in one piece, or as the
same person, after what shouldn’t have happened has happened – even if it is
not (entirely) our own fault. (There is also this great bit in “The Spooks”
where Lucas North explains to Conny James that everything good she has done
counts for nothing after she became a traitor. Tough! He might have been a bit
less judgmental. Or I might have been, about Othello … or not!)
I still
don’t know why this is so important, but I feel this post about LYING coming on
for some time. Lying in “Shakespeare”, “House of Cards”, “Woody Allen” … with
my favourite quote about lying by Claire Underwood as a centerpiece: “I HATE
LYING”. I actually believed her, by the way, and I believe Macbeth about lying
becoming such a BURDEN. And this is why: I only realized recently, about things
happening in real life, that not having to lie actually is a LUXURY, not some
kind of achievement. In fact, continuous lying turns out as a really horrible
thing FOR THE LIARS, stripping them of their own truth and literally wearing
their humanity away. And, in extreme cases, there might actually be nothing
left. So, this really bleak kind of truth like “I am nothing” might actually
come as some kind of tragic RELIEF. Just the simple act of taking a breath and
STOP LYING.
In
“Othello”, in my opinion, Shakespeare tried to give his protagonist this moment
of GENUINE dignity, which means, quite literally, to give the actor this actual
“Nothing moment” TO PLAY, like in “Richard III”. But what is so different about
Richard III is that he is granted this luxury of directly addressing the
audience. As far as I know, he is the only person in Shakespeare who gets it.
It would be possible for Iago or Macbeth to play their asides like this all the
way through, but I don’t think it would come out right. In any case, Othello
doesn’t have this freedom. He has to speak to his imminent social environment,
the people who will pass judgement on him. And this is rather a different
position. But, I think, Shakespeare tried to give him something - which might
not really work as well as Richard III but presents at least an opportunity for
the actor to convince HIMSELF and somehow go deeper with the character. Not
just give him this half-hearted “send-off”. It might not really work on the
stage, in this case. I couldn’t know until I had seen somebody give it a try. But
it worked for me, reading it, with Iago in mind. As I wrote, in my opinion Iago
gets some of the most beautiful text Shakespeare has ever written, and this is
great for the actor, but there is also a danger of succumbing to this beauty. Lucian
Msamati’s performance was singularly beautiful, nonetheless he did exactly the
right thing: He never forgot to show how hard it actually is for Iago to be
himself and to pull this off. That he is feeling genuinely uncomfortable,
driven hard by ambition, hurt pride, and fear. Watching him, I realized that,
in “Shakespeare”, there is no real contradiction between beauty and the horror
transformed by it. If it is done right it is just two sides of the same thing.
And this is because most of what happens is already contained in the text,
which is, in fact, full of “stage directions”, giving the actor what he IS
SUPPOSED TO PLAY.
Othello
is more difficult because he doesn’t get this abundance, but Shakespeare definitely
tried to give him SOMETHING. After having made sure of posterity getting his
epitaph, Othello begins to tell a story. It evidently is a ruse to deter the
onlookers from the fact that he has a weapon and intends to use it on himself. But,
as often in “Shakespeare”, there is a second dimension. His story is the tale
of how he killed an enemy he REALLY HATED, ENJOYING IT. And, the moment he is
telling this, he stabs himself. This is probably not something easy to get
through to a contemporary audience. Nonetheless, I assume this unmitigated
SELF-HATRED is what Othello REALLY FEELS when he is finally alone with himself.
It is almost unimaginable: hating oneself so much to WANT to destroy oneself. And
it shows how completely Iago has succeeded. There really is no degree of hope
or comfort left where Othello is concerned, and tragedy like this might stop
working. There is nothing we would WANT to feel anymore. Still, I liked this
notion so much better than the frantic lying. Maybe because it turns Othello into
SOME SORT of tragic hero, as this might be the very last kind of relief “we”
will be able to get? That death and destruction might actually FEEL BETTER than
running on and on, driven by the lies piling up in our wake …
